


Complicated Circumstance

by Menrui



Category: Werewolf: The Apocalypse
Genre: Dubious Consent, M/M, Power Imbalance, Shapeshifting, Strap-Ons, Trans Character, Werewolf Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-15
Updated: 2020-09-15
Packaged: 2021-03-07 00:47:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,310
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26478211
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Menrui/pseuds/Menrui
Summary: A conversation about consent between Garou and Kinfolk, abandoned thoroughly.
Relationships: Original Character(s)/Original Character(s)
Kudos: 6





	Complicated Circumstance

"What do you mean, imbalanced?" Tyson stares up at Gabe seeking answer, rich brown eyes wide and curious beneath an overgrown, messy fringe that still doesn't quite hide his furrowed brow. It's hard to remember, in this brief moment where he looks so concerned and innocent, that Ty is Garou, a werewolf, and thus more than capable of turning into a furry blender at the slightest provocation. Gabe forgives himself for the slip, though, as Ty also seems to have difficulty recalling. Surely Ty wouldn't have asked such an obvious question if he had.

Patient, cautious, Gabe laces his fingers together behind his back and schools his tone and expression into neutrality. "I mean our relationship isn't one of equals. You're one of the People, the Chosen. I, on the other hand, am expendable--" 

Ty hushes him with a nudge of his knee against Gabe's inner thigh. "You ain't expendable."

"Not to you, maybe," Gabe returns with a thin smile. "But to your family, and the People, certainly, at least until I'm a father."

Ty snorts at that and taps a finger against his strap-on, a gleaming tower of crimson between them. It doesn't even sway, too secure in its harness. "Hard to make that happen when I'm the one reamin' you out all the time."

"That's my point." 

"What, you don't like it?"

"I didn't say that."

"Then what--" Exasperated, Ty lets the word hang somewhere in the air above his shiny red plastic cock, running his tongue over a too-sharp canine tooth. The clock on the wall loudly counts the seconds for them. Seven and a half small eternities, each one half-expected to end in sudden violence, and then Ty rolls his shoulders and looks away, pouting. "What's the problem?"

So many things could be said here, and Gabe thinks of them all in rapid succession: that Tyson, for all that he may be a man, is still expected to get pregnant and carry on his purebred lineage, and to pretend he won't be given a more productive partner eventually is folly; that consent is a complete fucking joke when every interaction has the potential outcome of death or mauling, and their relationship is closer to predator and prey or owner and property than the equal footing proper consent demands; that Gabe is all but destined for violent death whether it's mid-coitus (or, hell, mid-conversation) with a werewolf, especially an Ahroun like Ty, or as a meatshield in combat with some monstrosity that takes werewolves, of all things, to kill, and frankly Gabe would rather go down fucking; that Ty is the one who wanted to talk about consent in the first place and he should know better than to ask questions he might not like the answer to.

Gabe says none of them. Instead, he spits into his hand and rubs it on Ty's strap-on, adding a little extra shine to it in the dim light. "I guess there isn't one."

"Guess not," agrees Ty, watching him--hungrily, Gabe thinks, but his prick doesn't seem to care how unsettling that thought is. All it knows is anticipation.

Gabe shuffles forward on his knees, knowing a little saliva is enough with a toy this smooth, these days. Ty rolls his hips to catch Gabe's half-hard cock with it, though, before he's made it into position. It's shockingly cold, which Gabe curses himself for failing to anticipate as his cock shrinks from it.

Ty either doesn't notice or doesn't care, too busy idly squishing a breast with one hand and ghosting the other along Gabe's knee and thigh. Ty never seems to mind having his 'shitty fat lumps' when they're like this, and it brings Gabe a strange sense of joy to see these moments where the dysphoria doesn't bother him, even as fucked up as their situation is otherwise. A sight only for Gabe. Not that it's worth the rest of the werewolf bullshit.

Ty's hand is off Gabe's knee, now, wound around the base of the red rocket instead. Both of them rock their hips, locking gazes; the strap-on drags its narrow tip across his taint, snags at his hole, and then Ty thrusts up into him without so much as a warning.

Gabe's vision explodes for a moment--fuck it's _cold--_ and all he can do is writhe on it while Ty holds him in place, both his horribly, unnaturally strong hands now tight on Gabe's hips. 

"You're so fuckin' hot," Ty groans, and it cuts through enough that Gabe almost snarks back about the difference in temperature. Almost. 

They work themselves into their usual rhythm quickly after that, Gabe almost forgetting the initial shock as the plastic warms inside him, and Ty mimes coming inside Gabe right before they change positions each time, a show of groaning and hard thrusts that make the harness dig into Gabe's plush ass and thighs. Werewolves are, apparently, creatures of ritual when they aren't being absolutely fucking batshit. Sex is no exception.

It nears its conclusion in the usual way, with Gabe face down, working his own dick in his hands while Ty humps away and slaps his ass too hard. But the ritual fails at this point, and later Gabe will wonder if it was always going to; if the conversation was just a prelude to things going, well, absolutely fucking batshit.

He notices the sudden withdrawal first, and the sounds of creaking leather and jangling clasps as Ty fumbles with his harness. It hits the floor in a noisy clatter a moment later, and Gabe shakily lifts his face from the bed to see what's going on, only to be forced back down by a hand at the back of his neck. Too large, too strong.

Something warm and slimy drags along his crack, and Ty groans, throaty and bestial and wrong. Is that his clit? Whatever it is, it's hot, wet, and long enough to push inside Gabe, though not deep. Gabe's hands scrabble at the blankets, his dick apparently completely unaware that it should be beating a hasty retreat along with the rest of him.

But Ty licks his back, so Gabe goes still as he feels the long, sharp teeth dragging across each knob of his spine, and the hot breath on his skin, and he comes with a muffled sob of terror and relief all at once, splattering the side of the bed and his own foot. Ty just humps away as usual, as though he hadn't just transformed into a nine-foot-something war-monster, newly-formed claws punching ragged holes in the bed and rending the springs in the mattress. And as the metal screams, Gabe realizes he's still hard despite everything. Oh, no.

With Ty hunched like a gargoyle over him, rubbing and writhing and growling, Gabe loses himself again in short order, whimpering into the tattered remains of blankets and sheets. His body shakes from mingled orgasm and fear, jolts from the sheer force of each slam--some part of him understands that this is _gentle_ for a werewolf in Crinos, oh God--and then Ty rends the mattress and bedframe completely apart in a single outward sweep of his arms, with a throttled roar, and returns to his human shape before collapsing onto both Gabe and the ruins of the bed.

In a few minutes, there will be apologies, and Gabe will accept them because he must. In a few hours, in Ty's bed while he waits for a replacement, Gabe will stare at the sleeping face of his selfish, foolish, reckless werewolf boyfriend, and think about the heat and weight on top of him, the power in those limbs and thrusts, and jerk himself to a covert, shameful orgasm. Right now, all he can do is breathe in ragged gasps and listen to Ty's blissful, semi-delirious swearing right against his ear.


End file.
